Weather

It was the kind of day when the sun is warm and inviting, the shade pleasantly cool.

The kind of place where, as you walk, you get nicely toasted, and then a large shadow looms up – a tree, sometimes, a building at others – nice and cool, but the sunshine on the other side seems too nice to linger in the shade.

There was a riot of colours all around – the reds and oranges of dyes from a desert, the deep blues and maroons of the intricate penmanship that spoke of time and pains’taking, the tiny stitches that transformed transparent muslin into a translucent pastel gauze.

Silk, cotton, muslin, zari, beads, bangles, silver, pottery, jute, coir, wool, led up to the smell of butter and frying, asafoetida and fish, mustard oil and steam from a wok; to the warmth of stone benches in the sun.

Johnsons babies toddling off and grasping my shawl to steady themselves, a warm smile from the grandmother who sees me coax the little hand into letting go of my clothes and holding my finger instead. A stranger who smiles at me as I watch the artist make me a replica of the earrings I want – or did I smile first?

People, people and so many more people. Sunday mornings, full of benevolence; like warmth in winter, a commodity to be treasured in this city.

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4 Responses

  1. (choke)

    (cough)

    (sound of blog dying)

    (choke)

    (cough)

  2. well, we missed you. Keep in mind that your audience has been rather spoilt with posts everyday for the last month and a half!

    we wouldn’t want to condemn our audience to the intricacies of FOB/CIF now would we?

  3. Decide who ‘we’ is – that was a very involved comment! And I, for one, am back. For now, at least.

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